


Tiny War

by of_raven_wings



Series: Darcy Lewis Smut Week Challenge [5]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Darcy Lewis Smut Week, F/M, Masturbation, Sex Toys, tasertricks - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 01:20:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/of_raven_wings/pseuds/of_raven_wings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things are falling apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tiny War

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of Darcy Lewis Smut Week.
> 
> prompt: toys and games

The meeting room looks as though it’s been the scene of a tiny war.  Or maybe a tiny hurricane, Darcy amends.  Most of the chairs have been scattered across the floor, and one has actually been thrown into the ceiling, where it still hangs upside-down, its leg caught on something that she can’t see.  A pool of what she hopes is coffee is drying in the centre of the long table, and the sideboard, which usually holds a full coffee service, has been swept almost clean.  All that remains is the stainless steel coffee pot, which has been crushed.  She looks closer, and sees actual finger marks embedded in the metal.

Tiny war, then.

“I was wondering how long it would be before you came back,” a familiar voice says.

Darcy jumps.  Tony had been sitting so so completely motionless at the single chair left at the table, and she had been so distracted by the chaos, that she hadn’t noticed him.  

Darcy walks across to the sideboard.  Something crunches beneath her shoes; she assumes that it’s the smashed remains of the coffee cups.  She touches the coffee pot.  It’s still warm, and she wonders for a single wild moment if she could manage to pour out any remaining coffee.  Everyone knows that the best coffee is kept for the meeting room.  And almost everyone slips in here from time to time to  snaffle a cup.

And Darcy might slip in a bit more often than everyone else.  And she might have occasionally accidentally crashed a few meetings, but this is the first time she’s walked into a war zone.

“What happened?” she asked.

Tony grabs a chair, sets it upright and pulls it over next to him.  Pats the seat.  

Darcy edges over, sits down on the very edge of the chair.

Tony looks at her for a long time.  “I was kind of hoping you could enlighten me about that, Darcy.”

“Um.  I wasn’t even here?”

Tony sits back; she can practically see his brain working.  “Well, this is the way I see things.  You take off for the weekend.  No one can find you, and you didn’t tell anyone where you were going.  Which isn’t normally a problem, but when it turns out that your phone and ID are in your apartment still-“

“Wait, you went into my apartment?” Darcy asks.

Tony holds up his hands.  “For once, I can claim innocence.  A certain tall, dark and occasionally homicidal SHIELD agent kicked down your door.  Then teleported right into the middle of a particularly important meeting threatening to show everyone what their insides look like on the outside if a team wasn’t rallied to search for you.  Or something along those lines.”

Everything grows very still.  “ _Loki_ kicked down my door?”  Her throat is dry, and she swallows, but it does little to relieve the dryness.  “Did he…did he hurt anyone?”

“Surprisingly enough, no.  Though he really seemed to have a vendetta for that coffee pot.”  Tony tilts his head.  “You know, I think I might get it framed, put it up somewhere with a warning sign.”

“But no one came looking for me.”

Tony shifts his gaze back to her.  “After the coffee pot, we called in Fury. Who, I can tell you, was just _delighted_ to be here.  He pointed out, quite correctly, that you had no obligation to tell anyone of your whereabouts on your time off.  And so long as we hadn’t received an actual threat or random demand, we weren’t actually obligated to do anything.  That’s when the chair got it.”  Tony looks up at the chair embedded in the city.  “It was actually kind of pretty.  Like green fireworks.”

“Oh.”

“You don’t seem particularly surprised by any of this.”  Tony leans forward, elbows on knees.  “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

Darcy shifts her weight.  Crosses her arms over her breasts.  “Nothing is going on.  I wanted some space away from everything, so I got on a bus.  Stayed at a motel, went to a bar.  Came back.”

Tony leans back again, his posture relaxed and open.  “I wasn’t asking about your weekend, Darcy.”

Darcy looks down at her hands.

“Anyway, Fury is pretty much living up to his name right now.  I managed to get Pepper to invent some stuff to keep him occupied for a few days, and hopefully he’ll cool down.  But I suggest you get this ‘nothing’ sorted out as soon as possible.”

“He’s angry at _me_?  But I haven’t done anything.”

“You know, I tried that line with Fury too.  More than once.  He never believed me, but I never knew why.”  He stands up, buttons his jacket. “If you want to talk, you might find that I’m a good listener.  Or we have counsellors on staff, if you want someone a little less devastatingly attractive.”  He tugs lightly on the chair embedded in the ceiling, but it doesn’t budge.  “Huh.  That’s really caught in there.  Anyway, there’s something else I have to tell you.”

“More good news?”

The corner of his mouth turns up; it looks nothing like a smile.  “It’s a message from Fury, technically.  You and Loki are no longer partnered.  A new partner will be found for you from the recruits when someone appropriate comes along.  For the time being, you’ll assist Natasha and Clint.  And boy, do I not envy you that task.”

Darcy feels as though a cold wind is blowing through her bones.  “Fury decided this?”

Tony tugs at the chair again.  Something creaks in the ceiling, but it remains stuck.  “I believe the request came from a certain ex-Asgardian prince.”

“Oh.” The wind becomes ice.  “And what about…him?”

Tony shrugs.  “He’s still officially on the books as an agent, but apart from that, I don’t know.”

He leaves Darcy there in the ruins of the room.  After he closes the door, the chair falls from the ceiling, shatters into a thousand splinters.

 

#

 

Natasha and Clint set a breakneck pace, especially in comparison to Loki’s way of meandering through his cases.  Darcy spends more time in the air than ever before, and is rarely at home for more than one night.  It feels good to be busy.  Busy means that she has no time to think during the day, and is to tired to do anything but fall into a dead sleep at night.

After a while, she even begins to forget what it is that she doesn’t want to think about.  Loki himself has apparently vanished.  She doesn’t hear anything from him or of him.

It’s only when she catches sight of someone in green and black, or a tall, slender man walking with a particular kind of self possession that she remembers Loki, that she remembers the _incidents_.

Sometimes, she even thinks that she’s happy.

She travels to London with Natasha and Clint, the work itself requiring all of their skills and few of Darcy’s.  She is set up in a hotel where they drop their notes and reports, and is required to send encrypted transmissions of both through to SHIELD at the end of each day, but other than that, she is free.  Clint even thinks that he’s doing Darcy a favour, that she’s been working too hard.

The first night, Natasha brings a bottle of wine over to Darcy’s hotel room.  Pours them both a glass, though she only sips at hers.

They sit together in companionable silence for the better part of an hour.  Darcy works her way steadily through most of the bottle of wine.  Natasha just watches her, says nothing until the bottle is empty.

“So, how long have you and Loki been sleeping together?” she asks.

Darcy almost drops her glass.  “How did you know?  I mean, what?”

Natasha just gives her a look.  “It only takes eyes.  Since the cave?”

Darcy sets down her glass.  “Does everyone know?”

“All everyone knows is that you and Loki shared body heat in the cave.  Clint and Stark had their theories about what else you shared, of course.  It’s happened again after as well?”

Darcy just nods miserably.

“I’m not going to tell you what or what not to do.  You’re a grown woman, and one who’s smarter than she gives herself credit for.  And Loki, well he’s trying to be a better man.”

“He’s trying, all right.”

Natasha actually smiles at that one.  “Maybe you’d be good for him.  Maybe he’d be good for you.  Maybe you’d both drag each other down.  Which is pretty much the same maybes that apply to anyone.”

“It sounds like there’s a but in there somewhere.   But he’s dangerous?  Unpredictable?  Crazy?”

“You could say that about any of us.”  Natasha stands, pulls on her coat.  She fishes in a pocket, withdraws a folded piece of paper.  “But you should take some time.  I know what it can be like, when your body wants one thing but your heart and brain knows that it’s not always the right thing.  Take some time, and be sure of what you want.”  She holds the paper out to Darcy.  “Tell Helena that I sent you.  She’ll help you out.”

Darcy unfolds the paper.  “Is this what I think it is?”

Natasha grins.  “Absolutely.”

 

#

 

The next night, Darcy is alone in her hotel room.  Natasha and Clint are going to be out of contact for the next day or so, and Darcy has finished all of the work she has to do.  Checked her email at least a dozen times, even read through her spam folder.  Twice.

She orders room service, which she only picks at.  Turns on the television, flips through the movies, turns it off again.  Tries to read the book she packed.

All the while she’s aware of the discrete black bag sitting on the other side of the room.

Finally, when she can ignore it no more, she pulls the curtains shut, hangs the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door.  Turns off the overhead light and turns on a lamp, dimming the bulb as far as it will go.  

She picks up the black bag and tosses it onto the bed.  Kicks off her sweatpants, sits down in her shirt and underwear.  Opens the bag.

The address Natasha had sent Darcy to was a tiny store wedged between a bookstore and a lingerie shop.  There were no windows, and no signs apart from the letter _H_ emblazoned in gilt on the black door.  

When Darcy had knocked, Helena had opened the door almost immediately, as though she had been waiting.  She was tall and slender as a model, her blonde hair tucked into a knot, her black suit clearly tailored.  She had led Darcy up a flight of stairs, and Darcy had wondered how the woman managed the stairs in her stiletto heels.  They were the only suggestion that she was anything but a businesswoman: shining patent leather, the slender heel made from what looked like steel overlaid with filigreed silver.

Helena had led Darcy into a sitting room, poured her tea and offered her cake.  Then she had handed Darcy several leather-bound books, and bade her to take her time browsing.  If she wanted to handle any particular product, she needed only to type her requests into a tiny laptop, and samples would be provided.  Sales would be processed at the end of the appointment.

Darcy had sat down with her tea, wondering if Natasha had sent her to some kind of bordello.  Those thoughts were instantly gone - and replaced by much more interesting ones - when she opened the first book.  She giggled to herself, aware that she sounded like a damn schoolgirl, because this was nothing more that a very discrete, very classy sex shop.  The books were full of catalogues of sex toys, lingerie, costumes and accessories.  And way too many things that she had no idea what they even were.

Natasha’s words came back to her, then, as she paged through the books.  She was drawn to the lingerie, but when she realised that almost everything that caught her eye was emerald green, she set that book aside, turned back to the toy catalogue.

When she saw the description of the vibrator, she knew she was going to buy it.  She called Helena back in, and arranged the purchase, no sampling needed.

And now she sat on the bed, the black bag before her.  She reached in and withdrew the equally discrete black box from within.  Gold lettering along the top formed a single word: _Thor_.

Darcy ripped into the box, withdrew the vibrator.  A slip of paper falls out, informing her that this is supposedly an exact replica of the God of Thunder’s “hammer”.  Darcy giggles again, makes a mental note to show this to Jane sometime.

She runs her hand along the shaft of the vibrator, the flesh-coloured silicon giving slightly beneath the pressure.  She’s owned vibrators before, but nothing that’s been specifically made to look lifelike.  Now, holding it in her hand, it actually feels kind of creepy.  

“Well, I guess I won’t know unless I try it,” she says to the vibrator.  “And you did basically come with Natasha’s recommendation.”

She turns off the lamp, strips off her clothes and slides beneath the sheets.  Turns the switch on the vibrator’s motor, plays with the settings for a while until she finds something that she thinks she might like.

She experiments for a while, teasing herself with the toy, playing it against her nipples, running it along her stomach, up and down her inner thighs.  By the time she guides it to her centre, she’s starting to get wet.  Not like she does with someone else, but wet all the same.  

She slides the vibrator along her folds, jumps when she first brushes it against her clit.  It’s almost too intense, and she moves back to her opening, circling it before she begins plunging the vibrator inside.  In and out, in and out, just a little deeper each time.

It’s certainly turning her on, and she’s feeling pleasure begin to grow, but a part of her notes how it feels almost _clinical_.  As though she’s just pressing buttons, going through the motions.  She shoves those thoughts away, switches the vibrator to her other hand, and begins circling her clit with her fingers.  And _that_ feels good, and her hips are starting to circle, to thrust into the movements she makes with the vibrator.

At some point she registers that she’s getting hot, and she kicks off the bed covers.  Moonlight filters in around the edges of the curtains, and when she looks down at herself, her skin looks almost as pale as the sheets on which she lies.  She deliberately widens her legs, spreading herself wantonly open, as though there was somebody watching.  And that thought is enough to trigger an orgasm.  It’s not as strong as those she has with a partner, but it’s a release all the same.  She withdraws the vibrator gently.  Probably it’s something she needs to practice. she guesses.

She lies back against the pillows, closes her eyes.  She can smell the thick musk of her own sex in the room, along with the thin bitterness of her sweat.  She knows that she should probably get up and shower, but figures she can enjoy lying here for a little longer, at least.

She tells herself that she enjoys it, that she’s relaxed.  That she’s not craving the length of Loki’s body curved against hers, his arms around her.

Except she does, dammit.  For all that she doesn’t trust him, for all that he treats her like absolute dirt, she still wants him here.  More fool she.

The first touch she feels is so light that she hardly notices it.  Assumes that it’s the air conditioning, a moth.

The next touch is definitely not the air, not a moth.  It is skin against skin, a finger trailing up the inside of her thigh.  She opens her eyes, catches a glimpse of shadow, of moonlight catching in green eyes.  And then his mouth is pressing between her legs, his tongue going directly to her clit, his fingers sliding into her, curling back until he finds just the right spot.

There’s no teasing, just his fingers pumping in and out, his tongue alternating flicking and swirling around her clit.  And the second orgasm is building before she can even think, and she has to turn her head to muffle her moans into the pillow.  He gives her no chance to come down, just keeps working his fingers and his mouth, and she’s coming again, _biting_ the pillow this time, hearing the cotton tear between her teeth.

Silence.

“Why did you come here?” she asks, her head still turned away.  “Why do you keep doing this?”

His answer, when it comes, is only just audible, the words breathed rather than spoken.  “Because you keep calling me.”

She turns back to the room, but he is gone, and she is alone.  Again.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
